


Seduction

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Power Dynamics, Seduction, Unrealized obsessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forgive me. I am busy--but a bad case of the hornies got the better of me, combined with a yen to attempt Lestrade in a role that's clearly seductive and in charge, but not abusive or standard BDSM. There are token elements of classic BDSM...but the entire point is that they are token: symbolic, and transformed by the very fact that they are given power only by Mycroft's own contribution to the situation. </p><p>For what it is worth, while I actually think both men love each other, this story is NOT a romance. It's a seduction, and both men are very much dealing with issues of power, leadership, temptation, strength and weakness, victory and defeat. IMO both win--and both lose. And both are content with the outcome in the end.</p><p>Hope you all enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seduction

The desire to seduce Mycroft Holmes came late in Lestrade’s association with Sherlock’s brother. Years into their peculiar collaboration, dealing with the safety of Sherlock—and of England. Lestrade was over fifty, well into the aftermath of his own divorce. For years he’d got by easily enough on what he could pull at the pub or the club on an evening before a day off. There’d been some dating, both with men and women, but the truth was Lestrade found few who fitted into his peculiar life. A detective chief inspector for the Met. A colleague and ally of Sherlock’s. A divorced man in late middle age. A secret agent seconded to Mycroft Holmes. A man whose entire life was boobytrapped with secrets and illusions…

Trying to introduce a lover to his life felt cruel and bitterly neglectful, like releasing a fancy goldfish raised in a glass bowl to a wild stream—the sort of goldfish with ornate floating fins and a double fantail and delicate globular eyes and a huge fat belly devoid of streamlining. The sort of goldfish that could barely make its clumsy way around the still waters of the goldfish bowl, much less cope with the rush and race of a native creek, or with the predators who lurked there.

Better, he thought, to enjoy the advantages of his own singularity. So he kept a stock of condoms and judged his pick-ups cautiously, and as often as not settled for a quick wank in the shower rather than go hunting for the real thing.

He probably would not have thought of seducing Mycroft at all, had it not been for Sherlock, and Sherlock’s inability to resist a chance to sully his elder brother’s reputation… In the years since his return, he’d grown if anything more caustic. Lestrade reckoned it was the only way Sherlock could handle his growing dependence on “The British Government.” Not financially—his reputation had grown over the years, for better or worse, and he had no shortage of private clients. But year by year Sherlock had become more alien to the average civilian—much like Lestrade. Much like Mycroft himself. There were too few people who understood Sherlock, these days, or who existed in the complex and dangerous world Sherlock navigated daily. Even John was oblivious to much of what went on in Sherlock’s life—unaware of secret assignments, ever surprised by the bounty of strange contacts Sherlock created and maintained without John ever being the wiser, even after Mary Watson’s death and John’s short return to Baker Street.

Sherlock depended on Mycroft for challenging assignments, for comprehension of the world they shared, for anchor in the flux of their ever-changing environment. And Sherlock, being Sherlock, despised himself for that dependence, and despised Mycroft for being…Mycroft.

So he insulted his brother to those few with whom he shared the relationship at all. John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. All were the beneficiaries of Sherlock’s discontent, receiving endless scathing asides regarding Mycroft’s weight, his diets, his exercise, his homosexuality and, by extension, his limited contact with women. His reserve—and by extension his limited contact with anyone at all beside his professional team and his immediate family. His alliance with the government. His intelligence, or lack thereof. His morals. Or lack thereof. He presented a picture of Mycroft that bounced from extreme to extreme, from a wizened anorexic genius to a bloated and dull-witted toad hiding under a rock in a foetid marsh. Regardless of extreme, Mycroft never played a flattering role.

“You’d think he’d just concede to being asexual,” Sherlock said, sourly. “An orientation that sees so little expression hardly qualifies, after all.”

Lestrade sighed heavily. They were wrapping up a review of details they’d collected from their respective informants over the past month, and Lestrade was tired and peevish. While his work as a DCI was less intrusive and time-intensive than his prior position as a DI, he was still working two jobs, not one. Three, depending on how you looked at it. He’d have been happy to get out of this contact early, and potter on home, rather than listen to Sherlock exercise his skills at malicious slander.

“Man doesn’t stop being straight just because he’s celibate,” he growled. “No reason being gay’s any different.” He pulled file after file onto his smart phone, frowning at the thought of having to integrate all that new data into both his private database and MI5s system. “Anyway, last week you were in a snit because he ‘hired help.’ Which is it? Celibate or not?”

Sherlock huffed. “Given the quality and limitations of his employee pool, I consider it only right to classify them as little more than masturbation at one remove. Celibate. Definitely celibate…and doomed to remain so. He’s not got the skill nor the will to attract anything better… and no one in their right mind is ever going to attempt to attract him.” He gave a wicked little chuckle and pulled a face, his long fingers flying over the keys of his own phone. “Who’d want to, after all? Even when he was young he was…” he sniffed, then continued, “Well. He managed to look like a precious twink for about ten minutes, but by the time he left Oxford he already looked more like a gnome than a fairy.” He sniggered, as he and John often did when they played coy word games regarding Mycroft’s orientation.

Lestrade scowled, but as usual was unsure how to approach Sherlock’s far from subtle gay-baiting. Even if he’d been willing to walk through accusations of humorlessness, or favoritism for Mycroft, or been willing to suffer Sherlock deducing at long last that Lestrade himself played for both teams, he just…

He just didn’t feel like dealing with it. Sherlock’s malice was exhausting. Trying to discuss sexuality with a man who, though no longer a virgin, was still committed to overall celibacy, wasn’t anything he longed to do in any case.

“I don’t see why you care,” he said, and started bundling the files into folders.

“I don’t.”

Right, Lestrade thought. That’s why it comes up so often.

He wondered, fleetingly, if Mycroft’s actual sex life was any more interesting and active than Sherlock’s critique would suggest. It seemed unlikely. Not, he thought, that Mycroft was unattractive, exactly. If he struggled with weight that went up and down like the tides, he was nonetheless reasonably fit, stunningly well-groomed, with a certain puckish charm. If it weren’t for his reserve, Lestrade might even have considered his potential earlier—but Mycroft exuded an aura of wary caution. Every glance and gesture seemed to forbid any attempt at the ordinary social moves that presaged even friendship, much less romance.

Lestrade chuckled to himself.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and openly irked; his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Nothing,” Lestrade said. “Just thinking Mycroft must be a right bugger to try to flirt with.”

Sherlock barked with laughter—laughter that started raucous and escalated, until the lean man lay gasping in his chair, clutching his ribs. Once or twice he attempted a witty response, only to fail, overcome by his own amusement.

Lestrade grinned noncommitally; then, unwilling to wait until such time as Sherlock regained control, he stood, and pocketed his phone. “Yeah, well,” he said. “Guess that covers everything, eh? Be on my way, then.” He cuffed Sherlock affectionately, and gathered up his overcoat and headed for the door of Baker Street. “Gimme a call when you’ve got more to pass on,” he added, and went on his way.

It was a short walk to the Baker Street Tube station. On the way he found himself wondering what it would take to successfully flirt with Mycroft. It wasn’t so much a matter of desire—more like an intriguing puzzle on the back page of a newspaper found in a dentist’s waiting room. Something you’d pick up and start pecking away at as the dentist’s schedule slipped and your own appointment continued to retreat into some mysterious future. He frowned over it, just as he would over a particularly complicated Sudoku square, or a clever crossword.

How would one seduce Mycroft Holmes? What would the man find tempting to the point of surrender? He wasn’t a man you’d invite out to the pub, or to a movie—or anywhere, for that matter. He’d flee the scene at the first hint of social involvement, hiding up in one of his offices, or in the Diogenes—or in his private rooms across the way from the Diogenes, that Sherlock swore even he’d never seen. No, an invitation was too ham-handed for Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps, though, if he invited himself to those places and events Mycroft did attend?

Not that he could get himself dealt into meetings with Lady Smallwood, or hush-hush rendezvouses at 10 Downing Street. But Sherlock had suggested that Mycroft liked meals out on occasion, and appreciated good theater and music. And, of course, there was always the one point of shared territory they held in common—the Diogenes, where Mycroft spent hours daily, and where Lestrade was a member “by convenience,” as Mycroft called it… A member enrolled years since in recognition of his work with the Secret Service, who would need that common point of encounter for professional reasons.

Lestrade hummed to himself, considering. Yes. He could do that—he could even explain attending more often than previously. A man of his age and solitude had a use for a club of the Diogenes’ many virtues. Good club chairs, good fireplaces, good liquor, good service, good subscriptions to all the newspapers, magazines, and a superb wireless connection…  
Yes, he thought. He could justify increasing his attendance at the Diogenes, rather than spending similar time at the pub or a café. His base costs were covered by MI5, including a reasonable allowance for good scotch and decent meals.

Indeed, now he thought about it, it was odd he’d never thought to make more use of the club than he had….

He smiled, then, thinking that he’d always considered it Mycroft’s place, not his. Well, that could change…

What next? He rode all the way home considering the next steps: find out what Mycroft did in his free time. Stalk him. And perhaps…perhaps he could encourage more professional meetings, while he was at it.

The entire project took up residence in his mind easily and happily, so seamlessly that Lestrade failed to give much consideration to how quickly it took up the empty hours of his life. Not that he intended to act on it, exactly. Oh, all right—he did start attending the Diogenes more often, always making sure to catch Mycroft’s eye, always making sure to smile, to nod, to force Mycroft to return the acknowledgement before retreating to a nearby club chair. And when they passed through the Stranger’s Room, or stood together on the steps of the old club, he did risk questions he’d never even considered in the years before.

“Ever go to a rock concert, or are you classics only?”

Mycroft had looked at him, pale eyes wary and puzzled. “In my day, yes. I’ve been. Back in uni, I suppose.”

“Who’d you go see?”

“The Police.”

Lestrade grinned, and said, “Oi! Nice to know you were in favor of my team even back then.”

Mycroft frowned, then caught the joke, and gave a forced smile. “Their lyrics were above the average for the period,” he said. “It was never too difficult to believe Gordon Sumner made it through uni intact.”

“Still go out to see Sting, then?”

“Not in years.” Mycroft’s voice was cool and forbidding.

“I hear he’s performing in a special production of ‘The Last Ship,’ this weekend,” Lestrade said. “Seems like your sort of thing.”

Mycroft’s mouth opened to deny such an inclination—and closed again. He looked away, hesitant. “Perhaps,” he said. “Thank you for passing it on.”

Lestrade grunted cheerfully. “No worries. Happy enough to let you know.”

They were silent. Mycroft at last said, uncomfortably, “Are you going?”

“No idea,” Lestrade replied, bouncing on his toes and observing the rain pelting down beyond the entry porch of the old building. “Depends.” He glanced over and waited, forcing Mycroft to meet his eye. Then he smiled, congenially. “You know what it’s like. No idea what my schedule looks like most days. Might well go if I’m free. You?”

Mycroft’s face looked small and worried and uncertain. “I… Perhaps. I’m not sure I’ll be free, either.”

“Well. Maybe we’ll bump into each other,” Lestrade said, then put his fingers to his mouth and whistled in a black cab, loping down the stairs without looking back.

He grinned all the way home, remembering the blitzed, hesitant look on Mycroft’s face. He’d managed it well, he thought. It was so obviously not a date, or even an attempt to make date.

  
Mycroft would not attend. He was sure of it. But, then, he wouldn’t either, in spite of liking Sting. He wouldn’t because he was quite sure Mycroft would be unable to resist checking to see if Lestrade followed through—and that he’d conclude it had been a ploy, if Lestrade actually attended.

If he didn’t attend, though, Mycroft’s suspicions would be soothed. He’d relax his guard…and when, at some point, Lestrade and he did overlap at some function or other, he’d be less likely to wonder if Lestrade had engineered it.

Not that he was going to engineer it. Of course, not. Stalking Mycroft Holmes? Plotting how to seduce him? At the most it was an idle pastime, an amusing way of spending the free minutes that seemed to cluster around Lestrade’s professional life.

Still…

He was soon in the habit of scanning newspapers and social media for events Mycroft might enjoy. He’d pass them along, sometimes with a question. “Do you enjoy jazz? Tom Stoppard plays? Folk dancing? Are you interested in a production of the Tempest in Hyde Park next weekend?” He didn’t attend…but with time Mycroft came to smile when a note was passed silently to him as he sat reading, or when Lestrade approached him on the pavement outside the club.

It was a delicate expression, Lestrade thought. Shy, hesitant, but oddly grateful.

One day Mycroft, walking past Lestrade’s club chair, handed him a note, written in a clean, elegant hand.

The Cohen concert was superb. My thanks for alerting me.

Lestrade read it, and felt a smile grow on his own face. He grinned up at Mycroft and nodded, mouthing, “You’re welcome.” Then, without pausing, he moved to the next step—a move he’d established as a hypothetical months before. Silently, he pointed toward the Stranger’s Room, and mouthed, “Drink?”

Mycroft hesitated, then nodded. Together they retreated to the public room—the one room where speech was allowed.

Not that they said much. Mycroft described the concert, though not at length. Lestrade grunted, and said he wished he’d gone. Mycroft said it was a shame he hadn’t. Both commented that Sherlock was doing well lately. Lestrade said that Sherlock’s informants had disproven a concern raised by Lestrade’s own. They smiled at each other, uncertainly.

Lestrade, feeling wonderfully evil, allowed the cuff of his jacket to over-lie the knuckles of Mycroft’s hand, which rested clutching the edge of the little card table. He pretended to be oblivious as Mycroft noted the brush of fabric, started to draw away, hesitated, then did retreat.

He kept a secret smile hidden behind his eyes. It was enough to know Mycroft had noticed. Had cared. Had been forced to ask himself what to do about that light, impersonal contact. Had doubted…

From that point on, though, Lestrade mounted the most subtle of campaigns. He was cautious…and, yet, knowing Mycroft noted his presence, cared about his physical presence, he began reminding Mycroft of that.

More often than he once had, he would remove his jacket when he took his club chair at the Diogenes, stretching in lazy, idle cat-arches before sitting and on arising. He’d loosen his tie—slightly. Just enough. He’d brush against Mycroft’s knee or his shoulders as he walked past the other man. When they sat together, at the Diogenes or in meetings at Mycroft’s various offices, the solid toe of his homely work shoes would knock lightly against the polished point of Mycroft’s wing-tip brogues.

It was a bright spring afternoon, with the wind racing up Pall Mall in a sprightly rush, when Mycroft came out to join Lestrade on the steps of the portico. He stood, neat and contained, a few feet from Lestrade, both looking out over the road beyond. For minutes, neither spoke.

At last, Mycroft said, cautiously, “It seems likely that you have been pursuing me, Lestrade.”

Lestrade had already predicted this day. He continued to look out over Pall Mall, hands in his pockets, wind shaking his overcoat around his knees. He risked a smile that was barely more than crinkled crows’ feet and a small upturn at the corner of his lips. “Hardly ‘pursuit.’ Merely testing the footing on the track.”

“I’m sure there are more profitable ways to spend your time.” Mycroft’s voice was tense and controlled.

Lestrade wasn’t disturbed. He’d already thought this through. “Pfft. Profit? Hardly the point, now, is it?”

Mycroft gave an uneasy grumble. “I’m not available, you know. I’m sure Sherlock will have made that clear.”

“Yeah, well. Sherlock…when would I ever trust him to know what you want, eh?”

Mycroft repeated the grumble, unable to contest the logic. At last he said, softly, “You’re wasting your time, Lestrade.”

“Whatever,” Lestrade replied, cheerfully…and loped easily down the steps, hands still in his pockets, feet eating up the stairs in their rush to the pavement below. He grinned all the way home, knowing Mycroft would fret and worry over that ambiguous non-surrender.

The next weeks passed in a rustle and hiss of rising tension. Lestrade continued to attend the Diogenes regularly, maintaining an attitude of poised waiting. He cut back on his already modest campaign of pursuit…while refusing to withdraw in any way. He didn’t apologize, or retreat. When he met Mycroft’s eye, it was with a smile. He still passed the occasional note suggesting an event Mycroft might enjoy. He still sat in his club chair, knowing now that Mycroft watched from his own with a dark, brooding gaze. He was content. He’d accomplished what was needed—Mycroft was attending to him, now. Aware of him. If, on the one hand, that increased the difficulty of the seduction—for Mycroft was nothing if not crafty—in other ways it simplified the challenge, for now he suspected Mycroft would accomplish much of his work for him. The other man’s inventive, active imagination could be counted on to plan far more successful approaches for Lestrade than Lestrade could hope to deduce on his own, after all.

So as Mycroft watched him, he watched Mycroft, meditating on each subtle cue offered, trying to determine what would attract him…and attract him beyond his ability to resist. What did Mycroft Holmes want? What did he need?

It was an interesting question…

“My brother mentioned you the other day,” Sherlock said one afternoon, scowling over a case file.

“Mmmmm? Not surprising,” Lestrade said, calmly. “He have an assignment for us, then?”

Sherlock huffed. “No.”

“Mmmm.” Lestrade turned over a page and said no more.

“He says you’re around the Diogenes more often lately.”

“Yeah. Older than I used to be. Makes a nice change from the pub. Quiet. Good scotch. And I can usually find a good game of poker in the game room.” He pushed the file toward Sherlock. “I still think it’s the daughter. What do you think?”

Sherlock studied Lestrade through slitted eyes, and frowned. “I think it’s a bit late in the day to be playing silly buggers, Lestrade.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock his most befuddled, ordinary bloke frown of confusion. “Huh?”

“You’re not thinking of trying to make friends with my brother, are you?”

Lestrade frowned in deeper bewilderment. “He is a friend, Sherlock. Or as much as you’d expect. Known him for years…”

Sherlock’s suspicions shimmered like heatwaves between the two. “He’s a prat, you know.”

Lestrade grimaced. “A decade, Sherlock. Ten years I’ve known the two of you, yeah? He is what he is—no surprise.”

“And you’re not pursuing him?”

Lestrade gave a chuckle. “What—he say I was?” He managed to sound smug and amused and superior, like a secondary school boy followed around by a lower schooler.  
Sherlock grunted. “No,” he conceded. “Just that you were at the Diogenes more often.”

“There, then,” Lestrade said, contentedly. “He’s right enough about that. You might want to try it, too—nice place for a bit of peace and quiet.” He pulled over another case file and began his review.

“You’re not what he wants, you know.” Sherlock bridled, jealous—though it was anyone’s guess who and what he was jealous of. His brother’s attention? Lestrade’s? “He’s established his preferences long since—neat, clean, and available by appointment for a respectable sum.”

Lestrade paused long enough to look up, feigning confusion. After a few long moments he said, “And I should care why?”

Sherlock huffed.

Lestrade bent back over the file.

“But it’s true,” Sherlock said, sullenly. “Rent boys. That’s his preference.”

“It’s certainly what he’s comfortable with,” Lestrade murmured, and refused to rise to any further attempts on Sherlock’s part to explore the topic of Mycroft and his desires.

What he did not say was the obvious—that Mycroft’s rent boys were his choice specifically because he did not prefer them…at least, he didn’t prefer them in terms of erotic desire. They in no way threatened the elder Holmes’ control, or dared to haunt him with longing.

Lestrade was more interested in what Mycroft would long for. If he chose rent boys because they posed no particular temptation, what did he avoid because the temptation was unendurable?

What would rattle his nerve, make his heart thunder, drag him from his calm certainty?

Lestrade had not yet admitted his own fascination with the subject. In his mind, it remained a largely abstract riddle. In his mind he wanted to know the answer—not act on it. The actions he’d taken so far had been like Sherlock’s eternal experiments—cold, analytical attempts to solve for a mysterious X-factor. He had not chosen to consider the thrill he’d felt as his cuff brushed over Mycroft’s hand, covering it, or the sense of joyful victory that had risen in him when he’d looked into Mycroft’s unsettled, shy eyes…and watched him hesitate to withdraw his hand.

Rather than admit his own yearning, he focused on the possibilities Mycroft’s choices suggested to him.

If he didn’t yearn for the pretty twinks for hire—if they were the antithesis of Mycroft’s weakness—then perhaps the British Government longed for an older partner. If absolute control and authority in a relationship was Mycroft’s version of erotic neutrality, perhaps he dreamed in secret dreams of following, not leading. If absolute choice left him cold, perhaps he longed for a partner who would ration out the choices.

Lestrade’s mind flickered over some of the more severe forms of dominance and submission games he’d heard of—and darted away, uncomfortable with the extremes of that kink. And, yet…

In less extreme versions, perhaps?

He could imagine…

He told himself the thrill of what he imagined was thrill at the thought that he might be approaching a final solution to Mycroft’s reserve. The rationalization made it easy for him to dedicate more time to variations on his solution. In his mind he walked toward Mycroft, watching the younger man back away without ever breaking eye contact, until Mycroft’s shoulders pressed against one of the elegant wainscotted walls of the Diogenes, and Lestrade’s hands pressed against the old plastered wall, caging him.

“You do understand I’m not interested,” Mycroft said out of the blue one day…in the middle of the Silent Rooms of the Diogenes, on a day when no one else was there.

Lestrade looked up from the book he was reading on his smart phone. “You do know I wasn’t asking?”

The lies hung between them, raising the hairs on their arms like winter static sparking off a cat’s fur. Mycroft’s eyes were worried and insecure…and vulnerable. Lestrade’s pulse picked up, and he felt his power over the other man.

“I wouldn’t pursue anyone who wasn’t interested in me,” he said. “If I thought you were interested, that would be another thing…” He let the words trail off, barely hinting at the possible outcome if he did think Mycroft was interested.

“Well, I’m not,” Mycroft snapped, and ducked behind the safety of the London Times.

Lestrade noted the faint shiver of the paper, and the too-tight grip of Mycroft’s long fingers. He smiled to himself.

“The London Symphony Orchestra is presenting Russian Easter Overture and Scheherezade next weekend," Mycroft said from the safety of his hiding place. "I’m not likely to make it—meetings front to back from Friday to Monday. But I have a private box at the Barbican, if you’re interested."

Lestrade paused, considering. “I like Rimsky-Korsakov,” he said, not looking at Mycroft.

“Yes. I thought I remembered you saying so, once.”

“What if you’re free, though?”

“It’s a large suite,” Mycroft said, voice tart and ironic. “I think we can probably both listen to the music without knocking knees or rubbing elbows.”

“Well, then,” Lestrade said, mildly, and held out his hand for a ticket. “Ta. Much appreciated.”

Mycroft wasn’t able to make it. Lestrade, though, did. He was amazed at the luxury of the private suite—and the true privacy. If a man wanted to make a show of himself to the other members of the audience, he’d have to work at it.

The music was fantastic. All Lestrade regretted was the lack of company to listen with.

Over the next months he received similar gifts—tickets to shows, to concerts. Suggestions of art openings with passes to private parties after. Lestrade attended some. Failed to attend others. Was never anything but impressed at the world Mycroft inhabited…

…Was never fooled into thinking this was anything but Mycroft trying to find his own way to admit interest. The man feigned indifference, but the tickets continued to be offered, and when they were used he would comment, asking if the production had been enjoyed.

The first time the two men’s schedules “happened” to overlap was a concert of Gershwin pieces, at the Royal Albert Hall. Lestrade loped up the stairs to the now familiar private box, dressed in simple jeans and a button-down shirt, expecting to be alone. Instead he found Mycroft sitting a row back in the eight-seat box, the curtains half-drawn, wearing an evening suit and an air of tension that set the little room on fire.

“Glad you could make it!” Lestrade said. He poured them each a glass of scotch without asking, and sat two seats over from the other man. He focused on the music, pretending not to notice each time he or Mycroft stood to refresh the glasses, fingers brushing as they passed the crystal Old Fashioned tumblers back and forth.

“Restless music,” Lestrade said, as the orchestra began “Second Rhapsody.”

“Americans,” Mycroft replied, not looking at his guest. “A New York composition. What can one expect?”

Regardless of what nation or city was evoked, the music was edgy, energetic, poised on the eternal edge of waiting. That seemed to suit Gershwin in general, Lestrade thought, though it might have been his awareness of Mycroft’s awareness.

Neither of them took action—until, as the applause faded and the audience ebbed out of the hall and into the lobby. Then Greg rose, stretched, and looked at his host, letting a warm, fond smile blossom. “You look a treat, Mike,” he said. “You do a suit proud. Just—one thing…” He leaned over the seat between them and picked loose one single curl of Mycroft’s scant forelock, letting it fall in a cheerful comma over his brow.

And then he left, whistling “Summertime,” from Porgy and Bess. There was a burning ember in his stomach as he contemplated the stunned, frozen expression on Mycroft’s face. The other man had sat, shivering, not dodging away, not pressing forward, eyes locked on Lestrade, breath fluttering in and out like the breath of a shy rabbit held rapt by a stalking cat….

I could have done anything with him, Lestrade thought, stunned and shaken. I could have led him anywhere. He’d have followed my lead.

Still, Lestrade failed to register his own desire.

They watched a production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth together, though they missed a revival of Stoppard’s _Rosencrantz and Guidenstern are Dead_. Lestrade heard Michael Buble on the horn, and failed to ask himself why he thought of Mycroft all through “Funny Valentine,” smiling fondly and thinking of a large nose and worried blue-grey eyes. Unbeknownst to him, Mycroft attended a production of _Rent_ _,_  much against his own better instincts, and left half-way through, sulky and forlorn, bitterly scolding himself for his own disappointment that Lestrade had failed to be there. At last they overlapped again, for a concert of British orchestral works at the Barbican, in the great private suite once more.

Mycroft sat in one of the luxurious arm chairs near the front, watching the orchestra play. He’d worn his evening suit again. After all, it was what one did, wasn’t it? Lestrade, though, had come in trim black dress trousers, a plain white dress shirt open at the throat, showing the beat of his pulse in the hollow over his jugular, and a dashingly retro black jacket that compromised between the flared skirts of a frock coat and the trim tailored upper planes of a Norfolk jacket. The man sprawled on one of the sofas of the suite, legs crossed, arms behind his head. He appeared oblivious to Mycroft’s presence.

He was not. Indeed, his memory of the night was of a blend of tender, tempestuous music punctuated by his own observation of every uneasy shift and twist and turn Mycroft made, sitting alone in his chair.

During intermission Mycroft went to the restroom, and on returning poured a drink.

“Do you want one, Lestrade?”

“Not tonight. Music’s enough to get drunk on.” But he rose from the sofa and went to lean on the bar beside Mycroft.

Mycroft sipped at his drink. Lestrade watched him. Mycroft pretended not to know Lestrade was watching. Lestrade smiled, smug with the victory as Mycroft’s breath grew ragged and uneven and the scotch shivered in the glass.

The lights went down. Bridge’s “Summer” began, stirring and anticipatory.

Lestrade reached out in the shadows and took the glass from Mycroft’s hand. He sipped at it, then stepped close. “More?” He moved the glass toward Mycroft’s mouth. He smiled to see Mycroft’s tongue slip out, dab his lips, then go back into hiding before Mycroft, as though half-hypnotized, leaned forward and sipped at the glass held up for him.

Lestrade took another sip of his own, then set the glass down on the bar. He stepped calmly into Mycroft’s space. He rested his hands on Mycroft’s arms, let his hands slip down the crisp wool and silk blend of the jacket. He brought his hands forward and gathered Mycroft’s lapels in his hands and eased the fabric back over the other man’s shoulders.

“Why are you doing this?” Mycroft grumbled, even as he cooperated, letting Lestrade slip him out of the protection of his dress jacket.

“Because you’d like me to,” Lestrade said, smiling.

“I wouldn’t,” Mycroft said, sounding far too unsure for his own comfort.

“Then stop me,” Lestrade suggested. His hands gripped Mycroft’s forearms gently, pushing them behind Mycroft’s back. With one hand he pinned Mycroft’s hands together in a soft, firm grip.

Mycroft whined, wrapped in music and desire and temptation. There was nothing tentative about Lestrade’s actions. His hands were strong and sure, his grip on Mycroft’s wrists secure…but in no way brutal, or intrusive. Mycroft could have broken free in seconds, with ease.

“I’m not…” His words trailed away, lost to a tiny mewling sound as Lestrade pushed him back against the bar-edge, flexing Mycroft’s back like a woman being dipped in a tango. “I’m not…” he tried to say again, gasping…

“You can’t really claim I’m forcing you,” Lestrade whispered. His feet slipped between Mycroft’s, lightly kicking them wide. Then he was standing between Mycroft’s thighs, one hand still holding Mycroft’s wrists pinned, the other guiding his upper body until Lestrade could lean down and mouth warmly at Mycroft’s lips.

Mycroft couldn’t claim Lestrade was forcing him. Taking charge? Yes…but there was no action yet that was violent or too strong to resist. Mycroft was sure, too, that if he resisted strongly, Lestrade would step away.

He should resist, he thought, frantic and insecure, betrayed by his own desires.

Lestrade hooked a bar chair with one ankle, and warily drew it up, rearranging himself and Mycroft cautiously. In the end he sat in the chair with Mycroft poised, supported between his shoulders on the bar counter and his buttocks in Lestrade’s lap.

“I could take off your necktie,” Lestrade breathed into Mycroft’s ear. “I could tie your hands. Then I could unbutton that shirt. Kiss my way down your throat, past your collar-bones, until I licked at your tits. I’d hold you here in my lap. I’d unbutton your fly. I’d touch you…”

Mycroft panted, fought for sense and pragmatism. “I’m not… I’m not into…”

“Not into handcuffs and rope, maybe. But this?” One hand was at his throat, as Lestrade worked Mycroft’s tie loose. Moments later the fingers of both Lestrade’s hands wrapped the soft silk around Mycroft’s bony wrists, smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric, winding it tenderly. He tied it carefully, so the ends dangled in the scallop-shell curve of Mycroft’s palms. “You can untie that whenever you like,” he husked in laughing tenderness. “You’re only my prisoner if you want to be.”

“Oh.” The sound was a gasp, a sob, a sigh.

Lestrade’s fingers worked their way down the center line of Mycroft’s shirt, opening wide the cloth, tracing lacy whorls over Mycroft’s chest. He pinched his nipples, one in each hand, just hard enough to hurt…no harder. “More?”

Mycroft lay, strung in mid-air between Lestrade’s lap and the bar, helpless—not because Lestrade forced him, but because his desires forced him. He hesistated one last time, trying to convince himself he didn’t want this. It was unwise. It was embarassing. It was foolish.

Fingers and thumbs pinched firmly again. “More? Less?”

“Oh, God, more.”

“That’s right,” Lestrade whispered, pinching tighter, rolling nubs firmly as Mycroft writhed. “You’ll have to tell me what you want, Mike.” He progressed, hands seeking and finding, lips exploring, voice murmuring questions, demanding Mycroft cooperate in his own downfall, confirm his own seduction a move at a time.

“Like that, love?”

“Uhmm….”

“Want more?”

“Yesssss…”

Lestrade took Mycroft apart as the music played and the shadows hid them. Well before the end of the second set Mycroft was naked in his lap, hands still tied, hair a mess, body entirely open to Lestrade’s touch.

Lestrade was still fully dressed, cradling his naked lover, holding him secure. He touched, poked, slipped fingers into folds and tight-clutched openings. “More?”

“Yes. Yes, yes…”

As Mycroft neared climax, Lestrade pulled his face into the curve of his shoulder and neck, stroking and teasing, nipping at Mycroft’s earlobe, until Mycroft fell apart, wailing against the soft skin and faint stubble of Lestrade’s throat. Then Lestrade held the other man close as he panted and whimpered his way back to a state of relative calm.

Mycroft was destroyed by it. Overwhelmed. Here he lay, naked, bound with his own tie, helpless in Lestrade’s lap…seduced. Led willingly to his own defeat. Even now, he couldn’t resist. Lestrade’s arms were warm around him and held him firm. His hands stroked his back. He crooned soft, inchoherent murmurs against the top of Mycroft’s head.

At no time had he lost control. At no time had he lost the lead…and at no time had he climaxed. He’d played Mycroft with the skill and precision the orchestra members in the auditorium beyond brought to their own instruments.

“You liked that, yes?” Lestrade’s hands cradled Mycroft’s bum, and Mycroft could hear a contented, superior smile in his voice.

He clutched for anger to protect himself from shame. “You didn’t exactly join in,” he growled.

“Not this time,” Lestrade said, unrattled. “Another time. If you’re interested.” His voice was calm and in control. “Nothing unless you’re interested, love.”

“What makes you so sure there’s going to be another time?”

Of course there would be another time. Both men knew it. It might be weeks away—months, even. Mycroft would struggle with his own defeat. Struggle harder with the knowledge that Lestrade was there, available, willing—demanding only Mycroft’s consent to act.

Mycroft would avoid Lestrade. Snipe and bitch and pick fights when he could no longer bear to avoid him. Pretend disinterest even as he surrendered to Lestrade’s sure, calm lead…  
But there would be another time. Mycroft was lost, seduced by his own desire.

“That’s my lover,” Lestrade murmured, tugging the naked man closer against him. He slipped his hand between them, wrapped it gently around Mycroft’s spent cock. He caressed it like it was a dozing kitten, fingers tickling the head and frenulum idly. “That’s my lovely man… You’re mine.”

Mycroft whined into Lestrade’s shoulder. He shivered at the thrill of his own hands, still bound behind his back; his body responsive to Lestrade’s touch as he’d been to no one in all his years; his will undone at his lover’s least whim. He was Lestrade’s, now. In time to come Lestrade would bend him over tables, pin him against walls as he wrapped Mycroft’s long shins around his waist. He’d drop Mycroft to the carpet and loom over him, driving into him, proving his claim and Mycroft’s willing surrender.

Mycroft sniffled, knowing he was lost. Seduced.

It was a long time before Lestrade realized that he had been claimed in turn. He was Mycroft’s, now, and always would be, incapable of turning from his lover’s bashful, longing surrender. He was….

Seduced.


End file.
